


In Vino Veritas

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Alcohol, Clubbing, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Ficlet, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Scent Kink, Scenting, Short, Sweet, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if werewolves could get drunk, even without wolfsbane? This little story is set in an alternate universe in which Derek can and <i>does</i> get drunk, and his personality totally changes; all his thorny, sarcastic defensiveness falls away and leaves him needy and touchy-feely and affectionate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

* * *

 

"Hey, there," Derek says, quirking a lazy grin as he leans into Stiles, like, actually brushing their shoulders together, and then Derek's hands are  _on_ Stiles's shoulders and his face is even closer, and -

"Um, Derek?" Stiles hates how stupidly breathy he sounds, because clearly Derek is as drunk as a bee in springtime and this doesn't mean anything, and Stiles doesn't want to be kissed if Derek isn't even gonna remember it, which -

\- is an absolute, total lie. But it's still an important moral… something. Impediment. Rule. Scruple. Stiles has scruples.

"I think maybe you should go to your pack," Stiles says, gently pushing Derek off him, or trying to, anyway. Derek doesn't budge. He's a wall of warm, solid muscle against Stiles's front. Stiles's increasingly  _interested_ front.

"You're m'pack," Derek slurs, and Stiles's eyes widen.

"Oh-kay, and you're obviously delusional, because you'd normally fellate a loaded  _gun_ \- wielded by Chris  _Argent_ \- before you'd say that, not that I've imagined you fellating Chris Argent's literal or metaphorical gun, because that would be filthy and depraved."

"Y'smell good," Derek says, and buries his nose in Stiles's neck, inhaling.

Stiles squeaks. And immediately clears his throat in a manly fashion to cover up said squeak. "Wow. And now you're not just delusional, you're hallucinating, too. Olfactory hallucinations. I can't possibly smell good. After a whole night of poorly-coordinated dancing at this Gaga-obsessed club, I can't smell of anything except second-hand cigarette smoke and sweat and - "

"Sex," Derek murmurs. His voice has gone heavy and deep, and Stiles shivers despite himself. "You're hard."

"I'm not - ohgodyou'retouchingme." Because yes, that  _is_  Derek palming him through his jeans, roughly and clumsily and perfectly, and thanks to Stiles's virgin status, Stiles is approximately 0.02 seconds away from coming in his pants. "Please stop," he says, but the 'stop' sort of… breaks in the middle, like Stiles is breaking, because he does not have the moral fortitude to deny a fucking handjob from the man he's been fantasizing about and masturbating to ever since he first saw him in the woods.

But soon Stiles's failing conscience doesn't matter anymore, because, infuriatingly enough, Derek  _listens_ to him. "Mmkay," Derek nods tipsily, raising his hands theatrically, as if he's in a hold-up. "No touchy."

"No - " Stiles shakes his head as Derek weaves from side to side on his feet before sagging against Stiles completely, although he still keeps his hands _away_ from Stiles, like he's - like he's exactly the sort of idiotic gentleman Stiles knows he is. "Part of me wishes I could record you saying this stuff and play it back to you later, when all you can do is scowl at me, but part of me wishes you hadn't  _stopped_ , which is highly problematic, so I'm just going to drag you to Cora there and hope she won't gut me for making advances on her intoxicated brother, because  _I_ wasn't the one making advances, _capisce_?"

"Cap… mh. Y'smell real nice," Derek reiterates, as though it's important, and he sounds so ridiculously  _serious_ about it. "Smell best."

And Stiles is, in fact, blushing redder than the tacky pseudo-Chinese lanterns suspended from the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," Stiles mutters. "If you don't remember any of this tomorrow, I am never speaking to you again."

So saying, Stiles hooks an arm around Derek's waist and helps him to the other end of the very, very long bar, where Cora takes note of Derek's uncharacteristically happy, lopsided grin and raises an eyebrow.

"Don't ask," Stiles says, and just as he's about to step away and leave Derek with his far more sober sister (is Cora the designated driver, or something?), Derek turns and just… plants one on him, wet and sloppy, and the quick, hot swipe of Derek's tongue over his lips makes Stiles  _gasp_.

"No touchy," Derek repeats, proudly, still keeping his hands to himself, like kissing someone doesn't count as 'touchy', the teasing bastard.

"I don't have to ask," Cora observes, sourly, and retrieves Derek from Stiles's grasp gingerly, like Derek is a volatile compound. For an instant, Stiles considers refusing to let Derek go, but that's dumb, so Stiles relinquishes Derek in slow, awkward, unwilling increments and retreats on annoyingly unsteady feet.

He  _shouldn't_ be unsteady, given that he hasn't even had a single beer, because he's the designated driver for the humans, just as Cora apparently is for the wolves.

Stiles settles at the bar and orders himself another non-alcoholic drink, not glancing to check if Derek's left, already, or if Derek's still looking at him with those eyes, with that  _smile_ -

Stiles knocks back his drink and coughs when it goes down the wrong airway.

Great. One drunken kiss and Stiles is utterly unmanned. He wonders what he'll do if a sober, in-control Derek ever puts the moves on him.

…Yeah, right.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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